


Nothing Without

by HonestCannibal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Flashbacks, M/M, Memories, Mentions of self-harm, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Sibling Incest, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HonestCannibal/pseuds/HonestCannibal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mycroft was a bad brother, Sherlock had always thought as a child. Always, because Mycroft would never look him in the eye." </p><p>Happy ending!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Without

**Author's Note:**

> Two new stories in one night!? Holy shit! This writer's block is killing me.

Mycroft was a bad brother, Sherlock had always thought as a child. Always, because Mycroft would never look him in the eye. 

It sounded rather stupid now that he thought about it, but as a child it seemed to make sense; it was as if Mycroft didn't care for Sherlock, as if he didn't care enough to notice his younger sibling standing there with grazed knees and a split lip. All Sherlock would get was a glance from over the newspaper – but only over his body – and a muttered, “learn to defend yourself, you're a disgrace to the family name.” 

Sherlock would turn away, refusing to cry because it was 'unnatural' for a nine year old to cry, and get Susan (the nanny) to tend to his injuries, even if it would just happen again. Mummy was never at home to help and Father would just tut and mumble about how children could be so nasty. 

So really, Sherlock was always alone; even if Mycroft was there, he never really was. 

After years of bullying, Sherlock became accustomed to the abuse at school and the silence at home. When Mummy would return home, she always looked thinner than before but continued to ask him how he was, and that's what Sherlock loved the most, sitting down in the evenings before Mummy would disappear again and talk about _everything_. Mummy would nod and smile sympathetically, running a boney hand through Sherlock's curls and saying how proud she was of him. 

“ _Please don't let anyone get you down, Sherlock.”_ She would whisper as they hugged, _“I love you so much.”_

That was the last time he saw her. 

Of course, at that age, Sherlock was so ignorant to actually believe father when he said ' _Mummy's gone away on a trip.'_ and as Sherlock grew older, he knew she had died, he knew she had been suffering with cancer. Father said 'fighting cancer' when Sherlock asked him about it, but Sherlock knew the ones who lived are the ones who fight, and the ones who died were the ones who suffered.

It hurt to know that his mother had suffered. Hurt in a sort of undeniable way, like he couldn't shut it out, it was always there. He never cried about it, just sat back when he felt sad and remembered the times when Mummy was well, when she would take him in her arms and fall asleep next to him on the sofa; when they cuddled for hours on end and just spoke about mythical things that Sherlock used to be so interested in. 

Unlike Father, Mummy was always there – until she turned sick – and always acknowledged the things Sherlock would do and say. 

“ _You're my clever little boy,”_ She would smile, _“I'm so proud of you._ ”

After mummy's death, Sherlock assumed it was when he had just started secondary school at age eleven, Mycroft had become more interested in Sherlock. Not a noticeable amount, but he would glance at him more, sometimes he would even begin a conversation about some of Sherlock's studies. Being that age and not having much attention had made Sherlock prone to lean towards any care that was thrown his way, and having Mycroft nod in approval at his grades caused a deep warmth to emerge in Sherlock's chest.

Father stopped coming home a short while after Sherlock's thirteenth birthday, claiming that it was 'business' that got him so caught up, even if Sherlock knew it was a harsh drug addiction and a long visit to rehab, he never asked any further questions about it. It didn't bother him as much as it should have, although he hardly knew his father, so why should he care? Did caring save his mother? 

No, Sherlock refused to open his heart to anybody. He was friendless but he had intelligence, he saw no need to for friends or his brother and father; he didn't need anyone, only himself. 

Mycroft had began to take an interest in Sherlock by the second week father had been shipped off to a top-class rehabilitation center in Germany – Sherlock had overheard the conversation on the phone – and had started sitting with him in the evenings, 'helping' him with his homework and revision for his SATS. There was one specific evening when Mycroft's hand had rested on Sherlock's thigh just a bit longer than it should have, causing the two of them to make eye contact for about six seconds, then Mycroft stood up and left the room. 

The silence after that day had dragged on for weeks and Sherlock had no idea what he had done to cause such a heavy awkwardness around the household. He had spoken to Susan about it, letting her know that he certainly didn't mean to offend Mycroft in any way, even if he didn't actually do anything. 

He watched as Susan raised an eyebrow and stopped chopping the vegetables, knife frozen in mid air. Her concern was too obvious that Sherlock thought he had offended her too and was about to apologise, but then she had placed the knife on the chopping board and breathed out slowly, _“If anything else like that happens where you feel uncomfortable, you come straight to me, do you understand?”_

Sherlock had nodded, unsure of how to proceed with the conversation. He worried that perhaps he had got Mycroft in trouble, but then he asked himself _'why do I care?'_

Why did he care? Mycroft certainly didn't. 

He looked back up at Susan and her smile was so vibrant and loving that he felt the need to smile back; Susan was very gentle and kind, almost like a mother to Sherlock, seeing as he didn't have one now. Liking Susan was never an option as a child, but as a teen and realizing just how different he was from the other teenagers, he needed to like someone, even if that someone was paid to like him back. 

It wasn't _just_ liking her, Sherlock enjoyed her company far more than anyone else. Susan would never – could _never_ – replace Mummy, but needing to cling to a mother figure in his life caused him distress when trying not to. 

“ _Susie_ ,” He had said quietly and received her full attention,

“ _Yes?”_

He had wanted to get it out and refuse to show weakness, this wasn't supposed to a sensitive subject for him – _nothing_ was supposed to be sensitive for him, Mycroft said weakness would cause death in a worst case scenario, and at the time, Sherlock thought it meant Mummy was weak and caught cancer because of it, so Sherlock didn't want to catch cancer. 

“ _Will you be my mummy?”_

Susan had gone silent but didn't stop staring at Sherlock, her eyes holding something Sherlock had never seen before. _“No. I won't be your mummy. I'll be your friend, I'll be your sister, but I can't be your mummy.”_

That was good enough for Sherlock, so he smiled without any further questions, at least he would have some sort of female figure in his life, finally he could feel like a normal teenager, even if he was far from normal. 

From then on, Susan and him had become extraordinarily close. Sherlock would come home from school with new bruises or scrapes, Susan would clean them and then Sherlock would help her with the chores around the household. 

It wasn't long before Mycroft walked into the kitchen one day and frowned at the sight of his younger brother cleaning the pots and pans, babbling away to Susan. The elder had cleared his throat, catching both of their attention. 

“ _Sherlock, I want you to go to your bedroom.”_ Mycroft had said. Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor, 

“ _Why?”_

“ _Don't question me, just do it.”_

So Sherlock did with little hesitation, and the next morning, Susan didn't utter a word to Sherlock. From then on, Sherlock's world became a dark, lonely place. He had nobody to help him from the slow, clawing depression that overcame him by the time he was fourteen. 

He had asked Mycroft what happened to Susan and why they weren't allowed to speak to each other, but he received a deadly glare in response and never spoke of it again. Although, he did always wonder what Mycroft had said to Susan. 

During his year of being fourteen, Sherlock began to think that Mycroft was the reason he was alone, the the years of neglect and false brotherly affections were what caused Sherlock to turn out the way he was: lonely and a freak. A dark, deepening hatred for his brother ran through him, breaking him into a resenting, angry teenager who lashed out at the bullies when they didn't ' _piss off'_. 

There was one time when Sherlock had tried cutting out a bully's liver because he threw paper balls across the classroom at Sherlock for the entire lesson. Of course, Sherlock was excluded from school for the rest of the year and Mycroft was called in. 

Mycroft had been utterly furious with Sherlock, screaming the house down as soon as they arrived home. Sherlock had refused to listen, staring down at the ground and holding back all the swear words he so badly wanted to shout back, all the sick and disgusting names he'd thought to call his brother over the months of realization. 

Suddenly, his arm had been yanked and he stumbled forwards, knocking into Mycroft. Then a hand was brought across his face, striking him hard. It took a moment for the shock and pain to wear off, but a throbbing soreness ghosted on the skin. 

Sherlock didn't cry, instead he pushed Mycroft backwards with as much force as he could muster and screamed at him, asking him how he could _dare_ to hit Sherlock when all he was trying to do was defend himself, why he was constantly victimized all the time, why everything managed to topple down on him and why it was always Mycroft's fault. 

He had never seen Mycroft so angry and hurt, and he refused to acknowledge the guilt gnawing away at him. It wasn't _him_ that should have been feeling guilty, it was Mycroft. 

Suddenly, he was snatched from his position and thrown over Mycroft's shoulder. Sherlock panicked for a moment until he saw that he was being carried to his bedroom, _of course_ , he had thought, _where else would he abandon me?_

But when he was dropped onto the bed, Mycroft didn't leave. The silence was thick and Sherlock could see the rage vibrating from Mycroft, especially when he had stormed forward and pinned Sherlock to the mattress. 

Sherlock doesn't like to recall what happened that afternoon, or what happened every time he was alone. 

*~*~*~*~*

He shuddered momentarily, earning a glance from John. “You okay?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock stood from the sofa and rushed to the bathroom, suddenly feeling dirty. He knew no matter how many times he scrubbed at his skin, he would never get the feel of Mycroft off of him, even if it had been just over twenty years ago, there was the sticky, prickly feeling that clung to him. 

*~*~*~*~*

Mycroft would wait. Mycroft would leave Sherlock to quiver in his own little pit of darkness until it suited him, then he would come into the bedroom and yank Sherlock from the pit. Mycroft called it 'discipline', had said that after years of not having any sort of 'care', Sherlock couldn't possibly know what it was.

Every time seemed a little more painful and every time Sherlock felt a little piece of him disappear. He vowed to himself that when he was fully gone, it wouldn't be so bad, because he wouldn't be there, he would be somewhere else in his mind. 

His Mind Palace, that's exactly what he called it. He would sit in there for hours, before and after Mycroft would torment him, because nothing seemed to matter when he was in his Mind Palace. The loneliness soon became his friend and he had welcomed it with open arms. 

It wasn't until he was sixteen did he finally notice just how awful Mycroft's discipline methods actually were. He had been in school – one that he had gotten transferred to due to an incident which involved fire and a cocky schoolboy – and the moron of a teacher had been speaking about rape. How the subject was brought up, Sherlock couldn't remember, but it was a rather delicate thing to speak about to teenagers. 

“ _Rape is sex without consent. Any kind of sex without consent is rape, there is no in between.”_ he had been saying.

Sherlock had stopped taking notes immediately and snapped his head up, _“What about discipline?”_

The teacher had paused mid-sentence, _“What about discipline?”_ He repeated. 

“ _Can't...forced sex be used a disciplinary method?”_

“ _Of course not, that's completely absurd.”_

Sherlock nodded and suddenly noticed he was the center of attention, that every single person in the classroom was staring at him with something...something not quite right in their eyes. Sherlock looked down at his notes and ignored the way the teacher cleared his throat and continued on. 

Mycroft had been raping him, repeatedly. It sounded ridiculous, Sherlock constantly asked himself how he couldn't have known when he was so 'intelligent'. He couldn't say that he didn't have a clue, because he thought it was strange and he knew it started that day Mycroft's hand had lingered on his thigh; he knew his theories were correct and that Mycroft was making him into a disturbed little boy so he wouldn't have the confidence to tell anyone what was happening. 

Oh yes, Sherlock was one step ahead of Mycroft and would certainly tell him this when he faced him. 

Well, that's what Sherlock had thought. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

“You've been in there a long time, are you sure you're okay?” John's voice called from behind the door and Sherlock jumped, feeling the freezing cold water run over his skin. 

“I'm fine.” Sherlock called back. He was fine, the memories weren't worth fretting over. 

Sherlock turned off the shower and shivered, hoping to just slide under the covers of his bed and lay there until this stage of depression would pass.

John had replied but Sherlock hadn't listened, instead he just stared at himself in the mirror, wondering. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

“ _You're not going to touch me tonight.”_ Sherlock had barricaded himself in his room, sitting on his bed which was pushed right up against the door, among with all the other furniture. 

“ _What on earth are you talking about?”_ Mycroft had shouted, _“What the hell have you done, let me in right now!”_

“ _Fuck you.”_ Sherlock had laughed, and God it had felt amazing to laugh after so many years of not having the ability nor reason to do so. 

“ _I beg your pardon?”_ Mycroft sounded absolutely appalled and Sherlock laughed again, his deep, throaty laugh that had developed over the coming months of puberty. 

“ _I said fuck you, because I know exactly what you're doing to me and I'm not letting you get away with it.”_

“ _Sherlock Holmes, you will let me in right this instant!”_

“ _No!”_

There were a few curses before he heard Mycroft storm off down the corridor. Sherlock had felt victorious, proud and larger than ever. But that didn't last long, because soon the crippling fear of what would happen if he didn't give in to Mycroft overtook him and he moved all of the furniture blocking his door. Then he sat and waited, and waited, and waited. 

Footsteps were heard and the rattling of the door handle sounded out. Sherlock sat in front of his bed, legs pulled to his chest. 

“ _Dinner will be ready soon.”_ Susan's voice had quietly called out. 

Sherlock looked up at her, seeing her gentle face reminded him of all the months they had spent apart, how much he missed her surfaced and he felt tears threatening to overcome him. 

He remembered what Susan had said about Mycroft that day, the way her face had churned to concern. He wondered if perhaps she would still listen or if she still hated him for what Mycroft must have said. 

“ _Susie,”_ He called out before she could shut the door behind her; she turned to him, eyes downcast just like Mycroft did, refusing to look him in the eye. _“Mycroft's been hurting me.”_

Susan didn't react, neither did she say anything. Instead she left the room, shutting the door behind her and walking off down the corridor. 

Sherlock had felt the inside of him crumble into a thousand pieces. Susan was his only friend, she was the only person he wanted in his life apart from his mother and Mycroft had taken that away from him. 

Instead of crying and burning something, Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. There was no one to help him, nothing he could do to prevent the inevitable. He stood from his spot on the floor, walked down the stairs and into the dining room with the utter feeling of hopelessness circling him. 

The depression came back after more of the sexual abuse – that sounded far better than rape – and Sherlock soon learned how to cope. He had tried a suggested method of self harm, but that did nothing but leave more marks on his body for Mycroft to tut at. 

“ _Absolutely pathetic.”_ Mycroft would say, _“disgraceful, you still can't defend yourself.”_

It was disgusting how much Sherlock had gotten used to the abuse, how he didn't even bother thinking that somebody would help him. 

You would think that if you knew something was wrong, if you knew that it could be stopped so easily, that you could not have to worry about it ever again, you'd think that it would be simple to find someone who might just care, and tell them. 

But no. Even with his brilliant mind, even with his sickening hatred that grew more and more every day for his brother, even with all of that, the words would not form. 

He had given up. 

*~*~*~*~*~*

“I'm worried about you.” John had appeared at Sherlock's door sometime during the deep thoughts and for once, Sherlock didn't want John to leave. 

Although that was the case, Sherlock couldn't speak; he couldn't get the words _'please don't leave me on my own, I can't handle this'_ to leave his mouth, so instead he swallowed them and shut his eyes. 

The dip in the mattress meant that John had sat down and, thankfully, wasn't going to leave unless Sherlock told him to. Sherlock couldn't help the bubble of relief that burst through him; he wouldn't be alone. 

“You can talk to me, you know, I'm not just...just some blogger that you picked up off the street.” John says quietly, “in case you don't realise, and God forbid you don't, I'm your friend and I want to help.” 

Sherlock almost laughed. _Help,_ he ran the word through his brain a few times. _Help_ was just a word, just a small word that indicated that somebody cared, and nobody had cared for Sherlock for years. Even after the abuse ended, when Sherlock had scurried off to university at nineteen, nobody batted an eye and him, and that's just the way he had liked it. 

But somebody did care now – John cared. John was here, John cared and he wanted to help. 

Through everything Sherlock had been through, he had never thought he would feel such a weight lift off his shoulders. 

There was a hand on his shoulder before the mattress straightened again, but before the hand could disappear, Sherlock's gripped it with his own, enjoying the feeling of another person on his skin. 

“It's Mycroft,” Sherlock whispered, “Mycroft is a bad brother.” 

Sherlock expected John to sigh, expected him to roll his eyes and say _'Sibling rivalry, how stupid!'_ Like all those other times, but instead, John didn't say anything. He sat back down, his hand still in Sherlock's and he waited until Sherlock spoke again. 

When Sherlock did finally speak, everything came out – the neglect, the isolation, the abuse. John had stayed for the entire time, his hand grasping Sherlock's securely, not uttering a word until Sherlock was finished. 

However, there was a long, heavy silence until John did talk. “Mycroft is _never_ coming near you again.” His voice was thick with hate, just like Sherlock's was all those years ago. 

Sherlock looked up at John, feeling his Mind Palace lighten, feeling every bad thought slither away as he stared up at his security, the one who had ever cared enough to stay with Sherlock until the end.

“Thank you.” Was all Sherlock could manage out, but even that seemed like enough for John as he stroked a thumb over Sherlock's hand. It would take years for Sherlock to forget about this, and he wasn't so sure how John was going to stop Mycroft from doing regular visits, but something about the look in John's eyes sent him into a spiral of...of freedom. 

Sherlock was finally free.

And even today, bad brother Mycroft still wouldn't look him in the eye.

**Author's Note:**

> Well that was...a bit dark.
> 
> It's a bit different from my usual stuff (not so different!) but I hope it was okay, and I hope I captured it well enough that I don't offend anybody who has been through a similar experience.
> 
> My PM is always open to those who have suffered ;A; I don't want anybody to feel unhappy or uncomfortable because of my writing!


End file.
